


Mad Boy's Love Song

by alliaskofyou



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Smut, kinda slow burn, literature references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 10:18:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13949514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliaskofyou/pseuds/alliaskofyou
Summary: The literature/university/Sylvia Plath AU that no one asked for. : )





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story wouldn't have been possible without my wonderful beta [](http://baz-n-simon.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3  
> I have opened commissions! [Bay's Ko-Fi](http://alliaskofyou.tumblr.com/post/176322514333/buy-bayleigh-a-coffee-ko-ficombayleigh)

**Simon**

 

I scan the shelf in front of me, trying to find anything that seems remotely interesting. This morning my lit professor instructed us to choose a poet, and their work, to analyze. The problem is, I don’t know anything about poetry, nor do I care to. 

 

Fiction, now that’s something I love. I have never been great with words. They tumble, trip, and spill from my lips, incoherent fragments that leave the listener confused and often irritated; but, fiction? Fiction has been my escape since I was little, since I was placed in the orphanage. Being able to step outside myself and my surroundings and experience another’s life as if it were my own helped me to be free. Fiction provided me with a connection to something bigger than myself. Once I began mimicking the writing styles of my favorite authors and started creating stories of my own, I was able to realize the power writing gave me. I realized I had a voice. 

 

Poetry, on the other hand, is a foreign language to me. Its structure and meaning are just as complex and unattainable to me as speaking. I despise it, and now I have to write a two-thousand-word essay about some poet I don’t give two shits about. I sigh and pick up the book nearest to me. Taking one look at the cover, I know I’ll hate it. I start to put it back, but the sound of someone clearing their throat next to me startles me and the book falls to the ground with a clap. 

 

“Shit.” I bend down to pick up the book, but the stranger beats me to it. 

 

My eyes widen at the bloke before me. 

 

The black-haired stranger is a little taller than me, but the way that he holds himself makes him seem even taller. He’s wearing khakis and a polo; which I recognize as the store uniform. His sneer directed at me makes me forget the English language. The stranger is gorgeous. Even though he’s sneering I can’t help but recognize his beauty. He’s slender, and there’s a defined regalness to him. His long nose comes down to a point with a slight turn, and his grey eyes seem otherworldly. 

 

I smile apologetically. “Sorry about that. I was, uh, I was just about to… to put it back,” I reach for the book, but the stranger holds it just out of reach. I frown, and the stranger’s sneer seems to lighten into a smirk. 

 

“You’ve been over here for fifteen minutes staring blankly at these shelves.”

 

I scowl at his condescending tone. “I- I’m looking for a book,” I curse my useless stuttering and try to straighten my posture to seem taller. 

 

The stranger raises an eyebrow at my statement, “And clearly having no success,” he smirks, almost wickedly. 

 

I am about to tell this annoyingly attractive stranger that he can shove that book where the sun doesn’t shine. But considering I might actually need help choosing a book for this dreaded assignment I decide against the impulse. 

 

“I’m looking for a poetry book,” the words leave my lips, and it’s almost a whisper. 

 

The stranger arches an eyebrow and points to the sign above them that indicates that we are, in fact, in the poetry section. 

 

I scowl exasperatedly once again. “I don’t know which one to choose,” my voice sounds almost angry, and I try not to break eye contact. 

 

The man studies me for a moment. His eyebrows pinch together, a crease forms on his forehead, his lips twist to the side. He finally nods and walks toward the end of the shelf, and I follow him.

 

He plucks a book from the shelf, examines it briefly, and hands it to me. “Read “The Fish.”

 

I read the author’s name, Elizabeth Bishop. I look back up at the stranger who has already begun to walk away. 

 

“Wait!” I say, my voice soft and yet almost desperate, as if I was worried that he might leave.

 

He turns back to me, his lips quirking into a smile, eyebrows raising a silent question.

 

I don’t even know what I wanted to say. I just felt the desperate need to continue to talk to this mysterious boy, it’s like he can read people like poetry. 

 

“I never got your name.”

 

“Baz.”

 

“I’m Simon Snow.”

 

“I know.”

 

I’m about to ask how Baz could possibly know who I am, but an elderly lady pulls on Baz’s sleeve and directs him toward another shelf. I blink a few times. Shaking myself from my stupor, I go to the counter and buy the book before quickly leaving the store, more confused and frustrated than when I first arrived. Though this time, I can’t blame poetry. 

  
  
  
  


**Baz**

 

I watch Snow stumble out the door, my eyes following him until he disappears out of sight. I feel a harsh tug on my sleeve and look down at the elderly lady glaring at me. 

 

“Stop ogling your boyfriend and help me find my book!” She huffs impatiently and points at the shelf where her book should be and demands I show her where it is instead. 

 

I ask her for the author’s name and the title. A quick scan of the shelves and I find it on the shelf next to the one it should be on. I hold back a sigh, walk around her and pick it up. I give her my customer service smile as I hand it to her with a quiet “here you go.” Her frown only deepens, making her look like a very unsatisfied toad. 

 

Walking away from her, I continue to amble around the store, avoiding customers who look like they’re looking for help and smile at the thought of Snow being my boyfriend. Reluctantly, I try to shake the thought before it takes hold and refuses to leave. Snow is straight. Or at least I assume he is because of the pink-haired girl that seems to always be with him. Also, I would like to point out, Simon didn’t even recognize me, doesn’t even know that I sit behind him every day in our Introduction to Creative Writing course. 

 

I smirk; Snow really is oblivious; but, if I’m being honest, it’s a little endearing how he fumbles through his life, chaotic and unstable as if he is propelled by a burning force that ignites sporadically. Snow’s full of vibrant energy, bright and alive, but there’s an unsettling aspect to it. I feel it most when Snow feels insecure or out of his depth, as he has been during this poetry unit. Something turbulent and dark settles over his features. He hunches his shoulders and his eyes hold a deep, haunting depth. I felt it when I talked to Snow in the store; however, it seemed the consuming nature lessened when I was around. It seemed as if Snow was able to breathe easier. I’m not sure what to think of it. I don’t even know if I want to. Thoughts like this will only make it harder to avoid Snow, but that’s what I have to do now, isn’t it? I have to end this now, before it even starts. It’s easier to do that. So why does it feel as if Snow is already attached to me, by a thin thread? And if I would even dare to cut it, would I take to bleeding inwardly?  


	2. Chapter 2

**Simon**

 

I take a generous sip of my hot tea and scan the bookstore. I skipped my morning class just so I could run into Baz while he was working. The more I think about it, the more pathetic it sounds, especially since he’s nowhere in sight. I look at my phone and groan as I realize the class I skipped just ended and that I actually could have attended. There are a few messages from Penny asking me if I ran into “the dreamboat that is Baz.” I stifle a laugh and send a grumpy cat meme. She’ll hate it (I love it.) 

 

She was so excited yesterday when I told her about Baz. She swears she doesn’t believe in love at first sight but is convinced that I’m capable of it. I’m not quite sure how that logic works. Something about the poem Baz recommended me had convinced her of it, and I have no idea why. I’m staring at the poem now, and I’m as confused as always. I’m about to close the book and leave the store when I hear him.

 

“Do you love it?” Baz smiles down at me, it’s hopeful and curious and I can’t help but return it.

 

“I have no idea what it even means.”

 

Baz huffs but his smile remains. “You’re just not reading it.”

 

I stare at him, incredulous. “I’m pretty sure I know how to read, Baz. I just don’t understand what is so great about this goddamned fish?” I throw my hands up in the air exasperated, nearly knocking over my tea. Baz chuckles as I reach out with both hands to steady the cup. 

 

“You have to interact with poetry.” He pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. I look back at his eyes. They’re watching me intently. His eyes are lovely at a distance, but up close the colors are more defined and vivid. I can see where small dots of blue and green merge together, but the light and dark gray spirals are more prominent around his iris. The colors swirl together and I feel entranced and overwhelmed, so I break the eye contact and stare back at the book in front of me. 

 

“I just don’t get it,”  I can hear the defeat in my voice. Baz scoots closer and angles the book closer to him, yet allowing me to still see it. He looks back up at me.

 

We’re closer now, close enough I can feel his breath when he asks me, “Do you have a pen?”

 

I nod and reach into my bag, pulling out a bright pink pen and hand it to him. He arches an eyebrow. “What? I like pink.” I defend.

 

He smiles and hands the pen back to me. I stare at him in confusion. “Didn’t you just sa-”

 

“You’re not going to learn if you don’t write what you observe, Snow.” 

 

I sigh and uncap the pen, poised for brilliance to come pouring forth. 

 

I wait.

Nothing. 

 

“You can’t just stare at the poem and ask it to speak to you,” Baz says. “You have to work with it. Together you find the meaning.”

 

I’m about to make a comment about how ridiculous Baz sounds, but the passion burning bright in his eyes makes me hold back. “What exactly am I looking for?”

 

Baz looks at the paper and then at me. “What words stand out to you? How does she describe the fish? Circle what you find meaningful.”

 

I stare back at the page. I circle the words “tremendous,” “battered,” “venerable,” “terrible,” “frightening,” “medals,” “wisdom,” and “victory.” 

  
Baz nods and says, “Good. Why did those words stand out to you?”

 

I look at the circled words. Feeling like an idiot. I have no idea why those words stood out to me. I just felt them. I felt the impact of them. They held power. But I don’t know how to say this so I tell him, “I don’t know.”

 

Baz frowns. “Snow, you have to at least try.”

 

I scowl. “I am trying!”

 

Baz shakes his head, his hair is up in a bun, keeping his hair out of his face, but the shaking movement jostles the bun a little and a piece of hair falls from the tie and rests against the side of his face. I desperately want to push it behind his ear. 

 

I don’t.

 

“I don’t care if you think you’ll sound stupid, Snow. What do you think of those words?”

 

I swallow and tighten my hold on the pen. “Those words make me feel something. I’m...I’m not sure what. It’s almost like awe.” I observe the people ambling through the bookstore, trying to find the right words. “The words are...contrasts, almost? How she describes the fish, in the beginning, is different to how she does in the end and these words seem to, I guess, express that.”

 

I drop the pen in frustration and groan when he doesn’t respond to my observations right away. “See! This is point-”

 

“Snow, you did amazing,” he says, looking at me intently, his voice sincere. 

 

I turn to him. “Don’t make fun of me.”

 

Baz’s face is open and honest. It’s the most unguarded I’ve seen him, granted this is only the second time I’ve met him. But there seems to be a perpetual wall in place, but I think I’ve fractured it, and, even though it’s small, it feels significant.

 

“I’m not.” He frowns. “You chose great words and supported your reason for choosing them well. Poetry is similar to analyzing fiction or literature in that sense. You make a claim and then support it with evidence. You’ve done that,” he says this matter-of-factly, with a smile playing on his lips. 

 

I smile at his praise.

 

**Baz** ****  
  


Snow smiles at me and I know I’m done for. His smile is radiant. He could outshine the sun. I think of another thing for him to do so I don’t combust. “Now, why does her opinion of the fish change? Why does she release it?”

 

Snow stares at the paper and he picks up the pen once more. His brows furrow as he bites his bottom lip, teeth tearing at the chapped skin. He looks back up at me, confused but more hopeful. “I’m not sure.” 

 

He offers the pen to me and I’m reluctant to take it. I want him to have the experience of figuring this out himself, but I decide that maybe he just wants to see how I decipher poetry. I take the pen from him and begin to write on the page. I underline the harsh, brutal imagery and box the flowery language. I draw a line where the shift of the poem is and circle the last line for emphasis. I point to the underlined imagery. 

 

“Bishop invokes a warrior-like image of this fish. She describes it as ‘battered,’ yet claims it didn’t fight her, that it isn’t fighting her. She describes the oxygen that the fish breathes as “terrible.” It isn’t clear whether she thinks the oxygen, something that keeps her alive and something that harms the fish, is “terrible” for the fish or her. I like to think both. I like to think that the reason why she stares at this fish so long and is so entranced by it is because she feels a connection to it. I think this is best seen when she looks into its eyes. This is when she truly begins seeing the life of the fish.The imagery when she describes the fish’s body is vivid and contains both natural and unnatural elements, which makes me think of the fish as something otherworldly, of something that can’t be truly defined. A few lines later the shift occurs: she sees the fishes jaw. Here, she sees how the fish has fought for its life, five times to be exact. She sees this in the hooks lining the lip. She describes the strings dangling from the hooks as medals with ribbons, proclaiming the fish’s victory, which begs the question: if the fish has won so many times, why didn’t he fight her? I think it’s because the fish was tired of fighting, and I think she sees this, so she lets the fish go. She is so impacted by the resilience of the fish that she imagines the victory flooding her and the boat with vibrant colors. I think this idea of the boat filling up with victory not only allows for the release of the fish but fills her with a sense of hope.”

 

I stop and look back up at Simon. His mouth is open slightly, staring at me with eyes wide open and cheeks flushed. I feel my cheeks burn and I swallow. “But that’s just my interpretation.” I try to smile to diffuse the situation, but Simon just keeps staring. I clear my throat and he blinks. 

 

“That...that was amazing.”  

 

I feel heat rise to my cheeks once more. I don’t know what to say. I hear a someone cough intentionally beside me and I look up in annoyance. My scowl immediately transforms into a smile when I see my boss towering over me. 

 

“Mr. Pitch, aren’t you supposed to be working the floor?”

 

“Yes, sir. Apologies.”

 

He nods curtly and leaves me, expecting me to follow. 

 

I stand and try to avoid Simon’s burning gaze. He grabs my hand before I can walk away. “I want to continue to talk to you.”

 

I laugh at his bluntness. “I have to get back to work.” 

 

He smiles, disarming me completely. “I know, that’s why I just gave you my number.” 

 

He points to my hand. I open it and, sure enough, inside is a folded up piece of paper. I laugh again. “Quite forward, aren’t you?”

 

He stands and grabs his book, putting it in his bag, which he slings over his shoulder. “Yes, but I have a feeling you like that.”

 

He steps around the table and walks away. I have to tell myself to not stare at his arse. 

 

I fail. 

 

\---

 

**Baz**

 

I lay on my bed, staring at Snow’s number in my phone, debating if I should text him. I hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me it’s unnatural, disgusting, wrong. I think back to Simon’s endearing smile and lovely laugh and realize nothing has ever felt more natural and right, so I type. 

 

_ Hi.  _

 

I regret sending it immediately. I sound pathetic as if I’m in high school, not in university. I start typing again. 

 

_ This is Baz.  _

 

I stare at the screen, waiting for a response and nearly dropping my phone when I see the ellipses. 

 

Hi Baz. 

 

I start to type but he sends another message. 

 

I wish I could’ve talked more to you today. 

 

I feel bold (and maybe a little afraid.)

 

_ Then maybe we should meet outside of my work.  _

 

I lock my phone screen and close my eyes, breathing to calm down my nerves. My phone dings with his response. 

 

Definitely. Meet me tomorrow at the park by your work at 3? Bring your favorite poem. I love hearing you talk about poetry like it’s the only way to truly communicate. 

 

_ I’m slightly suspicious of your intentions and flattery. Are you using me to simply do your homework?  _

 

You should always be suspicious of my intentions but never my flattery ; ) Goodnight, Baz. 

 

I try to fight back a smile but can’t. 

 

_ Goodnight, Simon.  _

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Simon**

 

I arrive at the park a little before three and find a bench out in the open to sit on. I’m bubbling with anxiety, my leg bouncing in time with my racing heart. I’m infinitely more confident over text and can’t believe I actually asked Baz out. I’m beginning to regret it because what could I actually say to him to keep him interested? He’s intelligent. He makes the English language sound like the purest form of art. Eloquent and vivid. He’s gorgeous, undeniably so. His beauty is in his sharp nose and thin lips, his slim waist and ashen eyes. 

 

As if to prove how gorgeous he is, he appears next to me, dressed in the tightest skinny jeans and a black v-neck. 

 

I swallow harshly. “Hello.”

 

He smirks and hands me a book. I stare at the forlorn woman on the cover and ask, “Sylvia Plath?” 

 

He nods. “She’s my favorite poet.” He sits down next to me, close enough that I can feel his arm rest against mine. “My favorite poem is on page 32.”

 

I flip through the book and find the page. “Tulips,” I say. “Do you want to read it?”

 

He reaches for the book and I hand it to him, our fingers barely grazing but just the smallest touch accelerates my heart; it feels like it is going to beat out of my chest.

 

He begins to read the poem. His voice has a smooth cadence and deep tone that leaves me entranced. The wind whistles through the trees and the birds chirp in the distance, but all I can focus on are his lips. They’re soft and inviting and I want to forget the poem entirely and devour his mouth instead, but I remind myself how much this poem means to him and force myself to try to decipher the meaning. I am lost. When he finishes reading, I tell him so. 

 

He laughs. 

 

**Baz**

 

“First, you might need some backstory,” I close the book, using my finger to hold it in place, squinting against the bright sun. “Sylvia Plath suffered from severe depression. She wrote this poem when recovering in the hospital from an appendectomy. Someone had placed these red tulips in her room with her and this poem was a product of that.” 

 

I look back at Simon who nods, encouraging me to continue. I open the book back up and trace the markings I’ve made around the poem. “She describes the room and winter as blindingly white, everything is too pure, and she describes herself as an eye that will not shut. She cannot take herself away from the scene. It’s as if she is forced to take in all that is around her when she doesn’t want to. This possibly attests to her desire of not wanting to live, her desire to give up. She doesn’t want to stay awake, but the tulips are too excitable and keep her from completely surrendering. She comments that she didn’t want any flowers, just wanted to lie and ‘be utterly empty,’ but these damn tulips are too red. She says they hurt her and that she can hear them breathe. They speak to her wounds and they seem to float, yet they weigh her down. These tulips are an oxymoron. They simultaneously widen and thin her existence in this room. She claims the tulips are dangerous and, in my favorite lines, writes, ‘They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, /  And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes / Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. / The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, / And comes from a country far away as health.”

 

I look at Simon and he still looks confused, but this time, incredibly interested. 

 

“What does that all mean?” He asks. 

 

I smile at the transformation and tuck a few stray hairs behind my ear. 

 

“The tulips are a metaphor for life. Life is beautiful and terrible, horrific and marvelous. The tulips are an oxymoron, like I said. Plath writes that she wants to lie and be empty, but these tulips are too red and excitable. They won’t release her and let her live detached. They make her aware of her heart, make her aware of the beauty of life despite the atrocity of it. It reminds me of my favorite quote from  _ Frankenstein _ : ‘Life, although an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me and I will defend it.’ It resonates with me, especially in the last line about health. This poem shows the power of hope, how it draws you in and latches onto you like ‘some great African cat.’ The last line acknowledges that Plath’s health, especially mental health, is far away, yet she can taste the warmth and salt of the sea and can feel her heart and its love for her, and she can hope.”

 

Simon’s staring at me with such intensity that I can’t look away. 

 

“You’re incredible.” 

 

I bark out a laugh, but Simon doesn’t laugh, instead, he reaches forward and grabs my hand. My laughter fades as he squeezes my hand gently. “I mean it.” He releases his grip and I immediately miss its presence. “You’re so eloquent and well-read and intelligent.” He pokes my cheek. “Are you even real?”

 

I laugh again, a blush rising to my cheeks. I smile at Simon. He smiles back. I want to kiss him, desperately want to kiss him. And I think he feels the same because he starts to lean in, and I follow suit, but we are interrupted by someone harshly clearing their throat. I look up and see an angry woman, probably in her mid 30s glaring at us. 

 

I’m about to ask what is wrong, but Simon beats me to it. 

 

“What is your problem?” I look incredulously at Simon. His face is red, neck flushed. He’s angry and I can’t figure out what for until I look back at the woman and read the same disgust I’ve seen in my father’s eyes. 

 

“Do you have to do that here? There are children around. It’s not natural, not something they should have to be exposed to.” She snaps. 

 

Simon growls and is about to snap as well, but I grab his arm and pull him off the bench. “Let’s just leave, Snow.”

 

He looks at me, a mixture of surprise and hurt, but lets me drag him away from the woman. 

 

After we are a safe distance away, he stops walking, pulling me to a halt. “Why did you just let her say that? You know what she meant, right?”

 

I don’t like being the object of Snow’s anger, but I feel attacked and the image of my seething father makes it hard to back down from the fight. “Why are you getting angry with me?” I scowl. 

 

He throws his arms in the air in frustration. “You didn’t stand up for us.”

 

I scoff. “I didn’t even know there was an ‘us’ to stand up for.” 

 

Simon’s face immediately loses all color. He takes a step back. “Well, my sincerest apologies for thinking there was.”

 

My heart drops into my stomach. What we have, whatever this is, is so fragile (and lovely) and the thought of me just breaking it makes me want to vomit. “Snow, wait-” I try to reach for his arm, to stop him, to try to explain, but he dashes across the street, leaving me to stare emptily at the passing cars. 


End file.
